


reptilia

by raikkonen (armario)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Cheating, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorders, Humiliation, Hypersexuality, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insecurity, M/M, Masochism, Sexually Transmitted Diseases, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-09 01:09:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20845052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armario/pseuds/raikkonen
Summary: "Has he always been like this?" Daniel asks in sympathy. "Or just since..."





	reptilia

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote 1 (one) happy thing and gave myself whiplash going back to this. PLEASE heed the tags. this is like.... messed up

Pierre thinks about the first time they had sex. He had asked a girl to prom and she said no. So he was lying in Charles' bed, ranting about _how the fuck is he ever going to get a girlfriend when Charles is right there looking like _that-

"You don't need a girlfriend," Charles said. He crawled up and settled himself between Pierre's thighs and lent down to kiss him, loving and thorough.

Pierre had been terrified that Charles would regret it and he would stop being his friend. He was shaking the whole time and Charles was laughing at him, guiding his hands to the right places, letting them fall over the edge together. 

"You don't need a girlfriend, okay?" Charles had repeated fiercely. "Don't take anyone to prom. Go with me. I'll dress up pretty for you," he smiled crookedly, kissing each of Pierre's fingers. 

When had it started to change? When had Charles started asking him to be rougher? To leave marks? He knows when it started, he just doesn't want to acknowledge it, because it makes his heart break.

"Oh, don't cry," Pierre pleads, mortified. He _hates _this. Charles' tears trickle down and wet Pierre's shoulder, where Charles has buried his face. He slows down, balancing Charles on his lap so he's fully seated on his cock, nuzzling at his neck.

"Don't stop," Charles gasps out, frustrated.

Pierre lays him down on his back, caging him in which he knows Charles likes- the feeling that he couldn't get away even if he tried- and focuses on the feeling of Charles' slick heat around his dick, instead of the way his painted nails scrape too hard over his back.

"Take the condom off," Charles begs.

"I could," Pierre answers sharply, "if I was the only person you ever said that to."

_"Pierre,"_ Charles laughs breathlessly, wrapping his legs around Pierre's back, pulling him deeper.

"You're- gonna- deny it?"

"Deny what," Charles pants, goading him into saying things he's promised he won't say. Indulging fantasies he doesn't share.

"You're a whore," Pierre whispers brokenly, giving in to what Charles wants, punctuating it with a vicious snap of his hips. Charles moans, high-pitched, throwing his arms around Pierre's neck.

"Say something else like that and you might actually make me come," he says sweetly.

"Fuck you," Pierre snaps, hurt, his rhythm faltering. 

"Oh God, no," Charles whines, clawing at Pierre's arms. "Don't stop. Not when I'm so close." 

Pierre hesitates.

"Please. Tell me I disgust you," Charles whispers, pupils blown wide. "Tell me what you really think."

"No."

"Tell me I'm a slut and I m-make you sick-"

"God, _no,_ Charles, you don't-"

"Please," Charles begs. "Pretend I'm someone else, then."

"I can't. I love you."

Charles screws his eyes shut. "Don't say that. Can't you try hating me for just. Just a few minutes?"

Pierre raises his eyes to the heavens, begging for some help. 

"I can't do it," he says. He's furious with himself, but he physically can't abide the thought of doing this to someone, let alone his best friend, the boy he's been in love with since they were stupid kids. His dick is softening in Charles' ass. 

Charles says nothing. He looks up at Pierre, and although there are wet tears tracking his cheeks, lines of mascara running down his pretty face, there is absolutely nothing in his expression. Not even disappointment. Just a dead and lifeless resignation.

Anyone can see that Charles is always beautiful. Like this, though, he is a picture. It's not a picture that interests Pierre's dick, but rather it tugs at his heart strings, and while Charles can turn on the waterworks on demand, Pierre could try right now. This is his best friend. 

Pierre shakes his head, biting his lip, letting his dick slip out of Charles. "I want to help you. I just can't... I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Charles pulls him down by his hair to kiss him, wet and sloppy, grinding up against him. 

"Is there anything else I can do," Pierre asks against his mouth. "Can I..."

They've done other stuff before, building up to this. Pierre has held him down, hating himself, but unable to take his eyes off Charles arching up off the bed. 

Charles sighs and rolls onto his side away from him. "No," he says bitterly. He walks off into the bathroom slamming the door shut behind him, turning on the shower. He'll have to wash the makeup off his face and scrub his nails clean before he goes out. Which he will be. They were supposed to be going together to the gala but now Pierre knows Charles won't be speaking to him for a while.

*

Pierre spots the young McLaren driver before Lando spots him. He's surprised that Lando is coming over to talk- they're not really friends- but at the terrified expression on the Brit's face, his heart sinks and he thinks he can guess what's wrong. 

"Pierre," Lando calls, fighting his way unsteadily through the crowd and putting one hand on Pierre's shoulder. His face is flushed with alcohol. He draws closer, not wanting to shout over the music, going slightly up onto his tiptoes to speak in Pierre's ear, "Daniel told me to come and get you. Um, in the toilets. Charles."

That hard 'Ch' that all the English speakers insist on, that even Charles has started using.

"Okay," Pierre says firmly, trying to project reassurance to Lando. By the way he seems so shaken up, he doesn't want to imagine what Charles has done this time. But then, it could be something Pierre considers quite tame, bearing in mind Charles' outward persona gives nothing away of the shit he puts himself through almost daily.

He follows Lando to the gents', picking his way through the people milling around. There are drivers from a few different series, staff, personnel, principals, owners, shareholders, investors, press; all kinds of people who'd react at varying levels seeing Charles like this.

Lando guides him to the last stall in the bathroom. Ricciardo is there, crouched next to the Monegasque and talking to him in low, hushed tones. When he sees Pierre is here, he shifts out of the way, looking pale and worried. 

"I don't know what he did or what he took," Daniel tells him quietly.

Pierre doesn't even flinch. He is slumped against the wall of the cubicle, eyes shut, shoulders heaving. His fingers trace repetitively over his prominent wristbone, a habit he'll never drop, a habit Pierre first truly noticed when he was 16 and lying in a hospital bed.

"Charles," Pierre says gently, kneeling down beside him. He repeats it a little louder, cupping Charles' cheek and turning his face to look at him, and when the Monegasque's eyes open, Pierre draws in a sharp breath. His pupils are almost eclipsing his irises. 

"Is it cocaine that you took?" he asks in French, trying to save Charles the embarrassment.

Charles nods.

Pierre's relieved. He knows how to deal with this. He knows what Charles gets like when he's had a line; he's almost more normal when he's high on coke than when he's on nothing at all.

"Thought it would make me feel better," Charles murmurs.

"Did it?"

"No. I'm sorry I'm hurting you."

Pierre melts a little. He was angry because Charles _always_ does this- they can't argue, because if Charles knows Pierre is unhappy with him, he'll break down and do crazy, self-destructive things like illegal drugs in a public bathroom in the same building as his colleagues and employers. He'll try and get himself killed because he thinks Pierre hates him. He goes out to random bars and lets strangers take turns with him so Pierre _will_ hate him. But no matter how angry he gets, Pierre could never.

"I should take you home," Pierre says, rubbing Charles' cheek with his thumb. He turns to Daniel and Lando, both of them staring like idiots. "Can you help me with him?" he asks abruptly. He knows they're just trying to help, but he's stupidly possessive, and he wants to protect Charles from the questions they undoubtedly have. 

They can't all fit properly in the tiny cubicle but Daniel hooks an arm under Charles' arms and helps Pierre maneuver him to his feet, completely taken aback by how easy it is to lift him.

"Oh, shit," Lando says, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, drawing Pierre's attention to Charles' face. A trickle of blood runs steadily from Charles' nose, staining his white shirt. 

"He can't go out like this," Daniel says, jerking his head towards the main hall. He tries to gently wipe the blood away with his knuckles, but only succeeds in smearing it over Charles' mouth and fresh blood drips out again anyway. 

"I'm okay," Charles tries to tell them thickly. "Really."

Daniel shakes his head, exchanging a worried look with Lando, still propping Charles up.

"He can have my shirt," he says. "I have a coat."

Lando swaps places with him, nervously putting Charles' arm around his shoulder. 

Daniel shrugs off his coat and jacket, and takes off his shirt. Charles openly stares and Daniel is both parts flattered and embarrassed. He tosses Pierre his shirt and starts putting his coat and jacket back on.

Pierre unbuttons Charles' shirt and stuffs it into the bin. His pale skin, all across his shoulders and down his chest, is littered with bite marks and hickeys. Here and there, a tiny, pink, circular scar. The Frenchman wants to hide him away from Lando's morbidly curious stare, and Daniel's shock. He trusts they won't say anything, but Charles is _his,_ and this is _his_ to see. 

"Please tell me you didn't do that," Daniel mutters. 

Pierre stares at him balefully. Why would it be worse if it was him? Why would Daniel prefer the truth- that several total strangers probably put those marks on Charles' body; that some of them were made by Charles himself? 

His eyes are drawn to Charles' shoulder where he had watched him put cigarettes out on his own skin before Pierre could stop him. He'd hissed and recoiled in pain, but then this look of bliss had stolen over his face, and that's when Pierre had really started to worry.

It had all gone downhill since then.

"He wants me to," Pierre answers coolly. "But I don't."

Daniel's expression softens. He is starting to understand. 

"I'm taking him home," Pierre says.

*

"Wash that blood off yourself," Pierre warns Daniel. He grabs some tissue, runs it under the tap and starts bathing the stains off Charles' face with it. 

Charles blinks up at him, a faint glimmer of amusement in his darkened eyes.

Pierre hears Lando and Daniel talking in low, fast English that he tunes out. He just needs to get Charles home; before anyone notices.

He makes a mental note to call Charles' therapist and ask if she can move his appointment sooner than Friday. It's getting bad again.

"Pierre, we want to come with you," Daniel says, startling him out of his thoughts. He looks up at the Australian, whose features are writ with worry.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Pierre answers curtly. 

"We're just worried," Daniel reasons. "You look tired, man." He lowers his voice. "Does this happen a lot?"

Pierre looks away, away from them, away from Charles. He swallows and looks back. "Yes," he admits, tucking the bloodstained tissue into the bin.

"We didn't know," Lando says awkwardly.

_Yeah, of course you didn't. I work day and night to hide it,_ Pierre thinks viciously, but he wills himself to calm down.

"We can just chill together. You could get some sleep. We can keep an eye on him," Daniel suggests, folding his arms.

"I'm not a pet," Charles says sullenly. He can barely hold himself up.

Pierre laughs. Leaving Charles alone in a room with two people who want to 'keep an eye on him'? While he goes and naps upstairs? No fucking way. Daniel and Lando would come out worse.

Then he looks at them, sees their stricken expressions.

"Come on, man," Lando needles softly.

Pierre sighs. He's tired. He's hidden this for so long, he's had Charles' back for so long despite Charles doing everything he can to sabotage his own life and career, that maybe he's allowed to give in and get some help with it.

"Fine," he shrugs.

*

"Just watch he doesn't throw up in my car," Pierre mutters, glancing in the rear view.

Charles is resting his head on Lando's shoulder, eyes closed. Lando looks petrified, even as tipsy as he is, and Pierre has to smirk.

"Do you want to hold him?" he asks in sympathy, then realises how much he sounds like he's talking about a cute pet.

"Aren't you dating?" Lando answers warily. Pierre can almost see him twitch with the urge to pull Charles close. He has that effect on people. Charles probably loves it; Lando is the perfect prey, stammering and caring and eager to please.

"It's complicated," Pierre sighs. "Go ahead. He's his own person, you don't need my permission."

Lando opens his mouth to object but thinks better of it, nodding quickly. He curls an arm around Charles' shoulders, who settles closer against his side. The height difference is amusing, but they look sweet together. Charles looks sweet with anyone.

Pierre can almost hear Lando's racing heartbeat from here.

"Do you always talk about him like he's not there?" Daniel says beside him, a little coldly.

"He's out of it," Pierre shakes his head. "You could say anything." _He likes it. If I started talking about how much of a shameless slut he is in front of you, he would probably come in his pants._

"I know he's beautiful and you want to protect him," he tells them. "And you should- he needs protecting. But you should just keep a distance. An emotional distance. You'll get hurt if you don't."

Daniel turns round in his seat to look at Charles, tucked up into Lando's embrace.

Charles opens his eyes and looks at him, with a half-smile and a shrug that says,_ he's not wrong._

"I'm hungry," he announces in a successful bid to lift the mood.

Pierre rolls his eyes. "We're not eating in my car."

"Pierre, I'm going to starve."

"And whose fault is that, angel?" Pierre counters, but he relents. "You want McDonald's? There's a service station in a few kilometres."

"Yes."

"Yes!" Lando repeats enthusiastically. "I'm hungry too."

Pierre notices his fingers are carding through Charles' hair. His jaw tightens.

_When Charles says he's hungry, he means he's going to pass out if he doesn't eat something. He's not just fucking peckish, Lando._

"I'll pull in and get some food, but you'll have to wait to eat it," Pierre decides. "Que vous avez normalement, cherie?"

"S'il vous plaît."

"That's hot," Daniel drawls. Charles decides to entertain them by teaching them rude phrases in French. Pierre just keeps his eyes on the road, trying not to let his gaze slip back to watch Lando getting closer to Charles every time they start laughing at Lando's awful pronunciation, until he's practically got the Monegasque lolling on his lap. 

*

Pierre rattles off everyone's orders.

"Just some fries? He's hungry," Lando asks curiously.

"I'll have trouble getting him to eat them all," Pierre replies grimly.

Charles whispers something in Lando's ear. Lando goes still, looking at Charles whose face only a couple of inches away with this expression of deep pity and surprise.

*

"I'm sorry you're going through all this shit," Daniel tells Charles. "I'm glad you have Pierre."

Charles smiles sadly. "Me too. I honestly wouldn't be here without him."

Charles moves to lay down till his head is resting in Lando's lap. The youngest man looks down at him, hesitant, one hand brushing through his hair, the other laced with Charles' fingers. He's fascinated by the tiny smudge of black nail polish on Charles' index finger, that he'd missed earlier when he scrubbed it off. 

"Who gave you all those marks?"

"I don't know," Charles admits.

Lando inhales sharply.

"I need to feel something," he carries on quietly, his accent slurring his words. "There are so many things wrong with me, I know. I wish you didn't see this."

"No," Lando breathes. "It's okay."

"Imagine trying to respect me on track when you know I am like this," Charles says, laughing cynically. "I can't feed myself properly. I have diseases. I'm... I don't know the word."

"Hey," Daniel tells him soothingly. "Hey. It's okay, man. You're still an amazing driver. You just have some personal issues. That's okay; everyone would understand."

Charles turns his head to look at Daniel, half-lidded, expression unreadable.

Pierre comes back to the car. He chucks the bag of fast food onto Daniel's lap, glancing at each of them and gauging the atmosphere.

"Talk about anything interesting?" he deadpans.

No one answers. They drive back in silence, the mood shifted from playful to somber. At one point, Charles loops one arm around Lando's neck and pulls him down to kiss him.

"Charles, no! Pierre is _right there,"_ Lando whispers, barely audible, but still fucking audible.

"I know," Charles whispers. He fits his mouth back with Lando's, and you can barely hear the soft noise of them kissing over the engine, but Pierre can hear Lando's breath hitching, and his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.

"Are you okay?" Daniel asks him in a low voice.

"It's fine," Pierre finds himself saying. It's not fine. It's not fine, but maybe Lando can give Charles something he can't today. Even though he'd like it, they're not actually dating, so Charles can do whatever he wants with whomever he wants. It's got to be better than the big, leering strangers who press Charles against alleyway walls, bruising and rough, or the sultry, sick addicts that seduce him in establishments he definitely shouldn't be caught dead in, and suck him off amongst a kaleidoscope of hallucinations.

Still, it leaves a sick feeling in Pierre's stomach, watching Charles teach Lando to kiss properly in the back of his car. He's going to crash if he keeps watching them, so he forces himself to keep his eyes on the road.

*

The novelty of exploring Pierre's house soon wears off, and the hunger sets back in as they settle down to eat the food. Daniel finishes two double cheeseburgers in the span of about six seconds, and Pierre himself is pretty hungry, demolishing his own meal while keeping an eye on what Charles is eating.

Lando is feeding him fries.

Pierre thinks he might be about to throw the Big Mac right back up.

*

It's late, and Pierre feels exhausted, but he can't just leave them all on their own. He lets Charles connect to the speaker and put on some of the edgy emo stuff that he likes, and boots up his PS4 so they at least have something to do <strike>that isn't sex</strike>.

Pierre and Daniel are sitting on the opposite sofa to Lando and Charles. Right now, they're absorbed in the game, with Lando getting louder and louder as he yells incredulously at the screen, to Charles' amusement- half just his personality, half the influence of alcohol- but Pierre knows it won't last.

* 

Charles is punishing him. That's the only explanation for why he's doing this right now.

Pierre focuses on the video game, but Daniel is absolutely thrashing him at it because he keeps getting distracted.

Lando gasps. He tried to muffle it by burying his head in Charles' shoulder, but it's too late, and Pierre sends the car into the wall.

He curses, chucking the controller onto the floor.

He gets up to get some alcohol from the kitchen while Daniel finishes the race, pointedly avoiding Charles' and Lando's gazes that follow him across the room.

He settles down onto the sofa next to Daniel. He unscrews the cap of the bottle of wine and swallows a few big mouthfuls of it, needing something to take the restless edge off. The music Charles is playing through the speakers is so loud it's giving him a headache, but he knows the song. The fact that Charles picked this one proves he is just trying to punish Pierre.

_Like the naked leads the blind_   
_ I know I'm selfish, I'm unkind_   
_ Sucker love I always find_   
_ Someone to bruise and leave behind..._

Pierre's frown gets deeper the more he listens, the more he thinks about it. Daniel leans over and takes the wine out of his hands, and it startles him.

Lando is rocking his hips up against Charles', breathing shallowly as Charles' hands untuck his shirt and sneak under it to skim over his abdomen. He doesn't know where to put his hands, splaying them first on Charles' thighs, and moving them to cup his face as they kiss.

"He's my best friend," Pierre mumbles suddenly. He snatches the bottle from Daniel's hands and takes a long swig.

"Has he always been like this?" Daniel asks in sympathy. "Or just since..."

"Yeah, but it's got worse," Pierre mutters. He sighs. "In some ways. I mean, he's so reckless. He doesn't take enough care to cover up... drugs, and stuff. He... he sleeps around. But I guess he's been worse."

There was the way Charles had curled in on himself and refused to talk, clutching the letter with the results in his hands.

"Can I see?" Pierre had asked gently.

"No," Charles snapped.

"I'm not judging you. When have I ever judged you?"

"I hate myself," Charles whispered. "I'm fucking disgusting."

Pierre hugged him, hard, and let Charles cry into his shoulder, remembering the last time they'd done this.

He'd thought Charles would become more responsible after seeing the list of the STIs he'd picked up in the last few weeks of reckless, desperate sleeping around in black and white.

He hadn't.

"You've always had his back," Daniel says, more a statement than a question.

Pierre rubs his hands over his eyes, feeling tired all of a sudden. "Always."

"Do you ever wish someone would look after you?" Daniel smiles, taking the bottle back and a mouthful of the wine.

Pierre shrugs. He becomes hyper aware of how close they're sitting.

"Sometimes," he admits. "But Charles looks after me when I really need it. When I got... demoted," his eyes narrow in disgust, "He was there."

Daniel takes another sip and passes the half full bottle back to Pierre. He watches Lando's hands move uncertainly from Charles' hair, to his sides, back to his hair, as they kiss and grind against each other on _Pierre's sofa._

"He's not here now. Not for you," Daniel murmurs. He turns to look Pierre in the eye. "And it looks like you need it."

Pierre swallows, putting the bottle down onto the floor. He shifts to face Daniel.

"I can't."

"What?" Daniel asks, feigning surprise. Or maybe he is actually surprised and Pierre is just going insane, too caught up in Charles' world where sex is the only thing that matters to anyone.

"Don't pretend you weren't offering," Pierre snaps. He scrubs his face with his hands. "I can't cheat on him."

Daniel raises his eyebrows, looking pointedly over at their entwined companions, then back to Pierre.

"He can do it to me because I can't let him go," Pierre rasps. "But he'll find a way to throw it back in my face if I do it. No. I can't."

Daniel shakes his head, lips thinning. "This is so fucked up."

Pierre barks out a laugh.

"Mate, I really am sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I just wanted to make you feel better."

Daniel looks earnest. Pierre flinches away from the pity and concern in his eyes.

"I just want to sleep," he tells him quietly. He hasn't slept properly for days; worrying about his career, worrying about Charles and what time he's coming home.

"That's okay," Daniel replies brightly. "I'll watch these two. Might even toss off to it."

Pierre takes a few seconds to work out what that means and wrinkles his nose in disgust. Daniel sniggers.

"You sleeping here or going up to bed?" Daniel asks.

"I'll go to bed," Pierre mumbles. It takes a lot of effort to lever himself up off the couch. He knocks over the bottle of wine, but can't be bothered to clean it up.

He collapses into bed imagining he can hear Charles' quiet moans and Lando's soft whimpers.

*

"You don't like guys?" Charles prompts.

Lando bites his lip. "I didn't think..."

"Doesn't matter," Charles shrugs, rolling his hips with a smirk. Lando's eyes go wide and his grip on Charles' elbows goes painful. "Pretend I'm a girl."

"You're pretty enough," Lando breathes.

Charles grins. "I have pictures..."  
He shifts and pulls his phone out of his back pocket, flicking through his gallery. "Here."

Lando looks at the picture on the phone, knowing that it's Charles, yet being unable to believe it. He's coquettishly laid out on a bed, long, slender legs in fishnet stockings, sharp hipbones casting a shadow over his concave stomach over which one thin arm is casually thrown, and Lando's eyes follow the line of his abs down to where a set of lace panties cover his cock.

He squeezes his eyes shut. "Oh,_ fuck_ me."

"No, look," Charles says impatiently, tapping Lando's cheek.

Lando opens his eyes. "Charles," he says, taking the phone from Charles' hands and flicking through a couple of the photos.

He snakes a hand down to jerk himself off, biting down hard on his lip to stifle any sounds.

"When do you take these?" Lando whispers, moving his hand faster on his dick through his boxers. He stops at one closeup of Charles' face, pretty bluegreen eyes wide and framed in dark eyeliner, mouth coated in perfect lipstick open to let Pierre's cock (presumably it's Pierre's) rest on his tongue.

"Pierre takes them for me," Charles says, pleased. "Do you like them?"

The Brit groans. "I'd pay so much for them," he admits.

"Maybe I'll send you some," Charles grins, rubbing his nose against Lando's neck.

Lando comes, hard, hips jerking forward as he soaks his underwear.

*

Pierre is woken by movement next to him and a warm body sliding under the covers.  
  
Charles' arms wrap around him tightly. His breath is hot against Pierre's neck.

"I know you're awake," he whispers in French.

Pierre squeezes his eyes shut. Charles smells like alcohol and Lando's shitty cologne.

He doesn't answer. Charles shifts to get closer and closer, till they're tangled up in each other.

_I hope you feel even just the slightest shred of guilt,_ Pierre thinks to himself. Something he finds infuriating but easier to understand is how Charles seeks out people who will treat him violently, because Pierre can't, won't, give him that. But Lando was as awkward and as fumbling as it could get. How could Charles justify this?

Charles' therapist told Pierre he has satyriasis. That he craves sex because it's the only thing that makes him feel alive and cared for. She said Pierre shouldn't be with Charles if he expected him never to cheat. They could work on it till the bitter end, but it was unrealistic if not impossible.

"I love you so much," Charles tells him, pulling them closer so they're flush against each other, Charles' hand cupping the side of his face. 

"Did he get you off?" Pierre asks flatly.

"No," Charles snorts. "He came without taking his jeans off and then freaked out telling me he isn't gay."

Pierre can't help but laugh, coldly.

"Daniel is coaching him through his sexuality crisis," Charles adds with a wink.

Pierre exhales, getting straight to the point. "Do you need some help?"

Charles sits up to look at him, hesitating, probably wanting to avoid a repeat of earlier. 

Pierre cups Charles' cock to make sure he's still hard. Charles exhales, covering Pierre's hand with his and pressing down to increase the pressure.

"Get in the shower," Pierre tells him. 

Charles raises his eyebrows, but he complies.

Pierre takes deep breaths, long and slow, to calm himself down. He has to do this. It's the only way Charles won't leave him.

*

Charles is waiting, perched naked on the edge of the bathtub. His expression is innocent, expectant, but the way his cock curves up against his stomach, red and swollen from hours of teasing, is obscene.

The shower runs scalding hot as always because Charles is never warm enough. 

"Get in and turn around," Pierre orders quietly. 

Charles lips quirk in a smile that borders on mocking. He doesn't believe Pierre will do it. He doesn't think he can, and for the first time, Pierre is desperate to prove him wrong.

Pierre pins Charles' arms behind his back, his whole hand circling Charles' both too-small wrists.

He's glad he has Charles facing away. He doesn't truly want to watch him fall apart.

He thinks about every time they had proper sex, the last time being some months ago now. Proper sex where it's slow and loving, gentle and careful, and their foreheads are touching, panting into each other's mouths because they don't want an inch of skin to be apart.

This is the only way, Pierre tells himself. I can only keep Charles if I give him what he wants.

He just has to keep his dick hard.

"I can't believe you just did that in front of me," he says as a diversion, tugging on his cock to try and get himself hard. He won't speak in French, not like this. He doesn't want to dirty and desecrate his own language with the things he's going to say.  
Charles tries to twist round.

"Don't move," Pierre barks.

Charles rests his forehead against the wet tiles, breathing shallowly. Pierre looks down and sees his cock is rock hard, pressed up against the bathroom wall, dripping precome that the water washes quickly away.

"You think Lando can give you what you want?" Pierre scoffs. "He's a fucking baby. He doesn't have a clue."

He keeps his eyes on the curve of Charles' ass, the way his cock twitches when Pierre speaks. He can't remember the last time Charles was this hard for him.

"I know you need it," Pierre placates him. "You're so desperate," he mutters, forcing himself to inject disdain into his voice instead of the pity he really feels, just to see Charles exhale raggedly and push back, needy against Pierre's dick.

"Don't move," he repeats, warning, letting go of Charles' wrists to reach down for the condom, open the packet and roll it over his cock. "I know you need it," he says again, raising his voice over the noise of the shower, "Why is that, Charles?"

Charles moved his arm to cover his mouth with the back of his hand, head bowed, hair saturated with water, but Pierre grabs it and pins it back.

"Why?" Pierre asks again. He lines his dick up to the cleft of Charles' ass. It's been a few hours since he prepared, but he can take it, he takes it enough.  
"Why do you need it?"

"Because," Charles mumbles, dazed, "I'm a slut."

Pierre looks up at the ceiling. _God forgive me._

"Yeah," he breathes. He curls his fingers around his cock and guides it inside Charles, who hisses and tries to flinch away.

"Does it hurt?" Pierre asks.

"Yeah," Charles whimpers.

"Good," Pierre replies. He lets go of Charles' hands and puts his own on Charles' thin waist, firm grip easily bruising the skin. He starts fucking into him hard, so Charles' whole body jolts forward every time and he has to scrabble to prop himself up against the wall.

"Pierre," he wails.

Pierre keeps going. His fingernails are digging harder into Charles' skin, and he drapes himself over Charles' back to bite hard at his shoulder. He's too fragile to be treated this rough. Pierre honestly feels like he's going to break something, hear his underfed bones snap as Pierre forces himself too deep.

The Monegasque jerks instinctively away, but then his legs buckle and he moans brokenly. Pierre holds him up, keeps pounding into him, watching his dick move in and out of Charles' sore, pink hole.

"Oh my god," Charles whimpers, moaning openly into the crook of his elbow.

"You're mine," Pierre says, rutting frantically now, hardly any rhythm to it, but it's rough and fast and he's never heard Charles make these kind of desperate noises. "I'm the only person who loves you for something other than your mouth or your ass," he chokes out. "You're just a hole to them, Charles. Fuck. Oh, fuck. You _are_ a slut."

He hates himself for getting off on this but he has no difficulty in staying hard right now as he gets closer and closer to the edge.

Pierre yanks Charles' head back by his hair, which he shouldn't do because it's already coming out without him pulling on it, and sucks a mark into his neck as he comes, thrusts erratic and uncoordinated.

He's not supposed to mark Charles where anyone can see. He doesn't care.

Charles spills onto the tiles, the wet slide of the head of his cock against the wall combined with the weight of Pierre's words enough to make him come, his whole body shaking.

Pierre feels the self-hatred descend like thunderclouds. He pulls out as gently as he can, which earns him a soft noise of disappointment, careful not to let Charles drop to the floor.

He doesn't feel like he deserves to touch Charles after that. If he lets go now, Charles will crumple, hit the bottom of the bathtub and probably knock himself out.

He helps lift him out of the shower; it's not so difficult. Not as difficult as it should be. He takes the condom off and throws it into the trash. Going through the motions while he tries not to throw himself off the balcony. _I'm an awful, awful person._

Charles won't even look at him, knees tucked up to his chest. 

Pierre stands there, and out of nowhere he feels tremors start to run through his whole body. He's supposed to be taking care of Charles after what must be the most emotionally demanding scene of his life, but he can't trust himself to look after him properly any more. He doesn't deserve-

He turns and walks out.

His hands are unsteady as he sorts through Charles' medication, methodically setting out his antidepressants, antibiotics and prep as he does whenever Charles is staying. When he isn't, he always texts him to remind him to take it, but he has this sneaking suspicion that he doesn't, because some of the side effects are 'weight gain'. It's probably not good for him to mix with coke and cannabis either, but try convincing Charles that. 

Downstairs, he overhears Daniel laughing, loud and happy. It's jarring. He thinks he made a huge mistake in inviting Lando and Daniel over. He should tell them to leave; it's only 11, but he can't face anyone right now, not when he's so overwhelmed with disgust for himself. 

And now he's hurt Charles too.

He doesn't even hear Charles come into the bedroom. He's startled to see him standing there, watching him blankly. 

They stare at each other for a second. He runs his eyes over the new marks on Charles' body; the fingertip shaped bruises on his hips, the dark hickey on his neck. Pierre opens his mouth and closes it, barely able to maintain eye contact. 

"Don't forget these," he croaks, hopelessly, indicating the array of tablets.

Charles hesitantly makes his way over to the other side of the room where Pierre is standing. 

"I'm... I don't know what to say," Pierre whispers. He shrinks away from Charles, afraid of what he's going to do. "I'm sorry. I-"

Charles throws his entire body weight at him, knocking Pierre off balance. Pierre wraps his arms round Charles' waist to steady him, and Charles in turn wraps his arms around Pierre's neck, pulling him as close as possible, breathing heavily against his bare skin. 

Pierre feels it overwhelm him, the relief and adoration; his eyes start to fill with tears. He hugs Charles as tightly as he can, squeezing him until he fears his ribs will crack, letting himself cry.

"Thank you," Charles gasps, muffled against Pierre's neck. He pulls back reluctantly to cup his face and look him in the eyes, and says again, with conviction, "Thank you."


End file.
